


Sweet Little Jest

by goldblumesque



Series: The Frostmaster Collection [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldblumesque/pseuds/goldblumesque
Summary: Loki chats rather idly while a bit tipsy, if it wasn't obvious. For the sweet anon who came into my inbox requesting drunk Loki, and all the implied emotional turmoil that inevitably comes with it.





	Sweet Little Jest

“And, and then I said...” A tentative pause to make sure everyone gathered around him so is listening. A glance into every single eye line. Despite slurring his stories are still some feat. _“I don’t have it.”_  A cascade of laughter. Trickles down from heady cackle into warm mirth settling somewhere between stomach and spine, and he reclines once more with a laugh downward, as if to hellish depths of his own psyche. _It can bite him._

 

It is here Loki feels so at home, if with a little embellishing. Adding height to already tall tales removes himself from them and how they might feel unjust, now. Merely failures along the road one can afford to be cynical of after their passing. His passing. Indeed, to all else out there he may as well be dead. Resurrection might come and get him, but he cannot see that point yet.

 

Neither does he see the gold-clad entity that so stalks the room for him. One of many rooms, that is, in the great tower of The Grandmaster and they bustle with colour, sound. A plague on anyone’s powers of observation whether they were half cut or not. The cosmic header of this whole affair, and it seems he’s been taking steps to find The Trickster. 

 

“Ohhh, here y’ are....” A low, appreciative purr as a hand lands upon a leathered shoulder, a squeeze of subtle affection soon after. Even Loki in all his prowess calls to flinch at it, more in surprise over much else. Yet, head still rolls to rest upon The Grandmaster’s arm in more of a display of tenderness than he’s shown anyone in quite a while. Eyes close and yes, it is here he decides he tires. 

 

“Tired already? Ah- _Asgardians,_ ” En Dwi ponders, kneading at those broad shoulders as if he were but a thoughtful feline gazing upward into sunlight. A teasing lilt, voice reaching lower into cavernous depths of range. “Never took ‘em for lightweights, you know....” A small pull at the thread of teasing the god, yet one he never fully latches unto save for when he is challenged. Loki answers with but a blithe, sweet croak of laughter.

 

“I told you I came from Asgard,” He cranes his neck around awkwardly to look up at his would-be nuisance; long, greased hair falling into his face in thick strands. “Not that I was Asgardian, my friend.” From there he slowly starts to slip down the leather couch, breathy cackle sounding as he does. It merely takes a slip of The Grandmaster’s hand beneath his shoulder at his falling side and he is right again, but his laughter doesn’t cease.

 

That same hand joins the other in patting at those Non-Asgardian shoulders, curiosity hovering at the bait put forth. And yet, sinking frustration knows that Loki will likely not stay awake long enough to tell him. For purpose of knowing, he doesn't send his trickster to bed with a crafty planetary shift, and in hindsight a share of kindness. Good friends don’t let friends travel cosmically while drunk.

 

“Then you-you can tell me all about it! While we walk, and talk, and make sweet little jest to one other...” Others guide Loki’s stumbling frame around the great couch he’d been sitting on, and soon is The Grandmaster taking him under his shining, sequined wing. He can’t deny that the feel of a strong arm at his back, clinging to him with subtle touch isn’t an unwelcome thing. Heartening almost. A smile shows as much on the elder’s face.

 

As they depart their company, Loki is if slightly more forthcoming with his tale. Smirks even as he takes the breath to say so, as if here away from the controlled confines of Asgard's halls it’s quite the funny story. Hand not so occupied at The Grandmaster’s waist reaches up to grip at his cosmic companion's, the one that lies at the plane between Loki's shoulder and neck. 

 

“I am a Jotun, friend. A creature of ice and frost, stolen from my homeland as a baby and raised on Asgard.” he offers, somewhat lightly for what it is, and The Grandmaster peers back at him. Never once taking his eyes from that face, and frowning a slight for pity. Steps slow their pace as they go. “Raised to be Asgardian. And so I’m neither of either, not really.” A breath in and he admits as much as if he’s at peace with it. _“I’m nothing.”_

 

And it’s here The Grandmaster stills. A quiet coo from him that almost sounds pained, as if watching hapless victim trip or fall and it’s neither funny or entertaining. As if he can just hear the thud as they hit the ground. Wincing follows and he rounds on Loki, that arm taken from around him if only to gesture wildly in front of himself. Want is strong to pull him from belief tempered with such keen self-doubt.

 

“No! No, _no no!_ You’re not **nothing,** my- my friend...” Fingers catch at the god’s forearms, and soon he’s holding a hand in each of his, fingers gently trapped there. He hopes endearment will cut through enough to at least afford him status above nothing. “You’re quite... you’re you’re, you’re... y-yourself.” It’s a rather roundabout conclusion, all things considered. A breath, and he continues.

 

“And I’m rather partial to... yourself, if that makes much of a difference.” He knows that superfluously, it should not. They are beings above the approval of others and have been for some time. Yet it feels like a sort of admittance and bravado drops with but a coy incline of his silver head. 

 

All Loki does is watch, smile in return. A smile that seems to light a path, spreading across his face in satisfied mirth, but remains hardly unkind. One of his lithe-moving, magic scarred hands reaches upward to tease a crooked finger beneath The Grandmaster’s chin, making that stare return to it’s usually so attentive nature. Inhales if a little sharp, words playing on edge of his tongue.

 

“This is where I’ll leave you for the night, my _Grandmaster.”_ he says, if a shade more solemn. Green magic weaves at his shape and he then becomes shapeless, taking himself back to the warmth of his own bed and leaving En Dwi quite alone. Protests are stopped before they can even begin. But alas, it amuses him to learn the morning after, that Loki had ended up teleporting himself into mid-air around thirty feet west of intended destination.


End file.
